


preprocess()

by pseudocitrus



Series: compile() [1]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It's okay</em>, she told herself. <em>It takes a couple days to find your Selection.</em></p>
<p>"Maybe even weeks," the Instructor told her, when Sybil next asked.</p>
<p>And then, later: "Or even a month or two."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sort()

**Author's Note:**

> \+ started writing down some headcanons about Sybil and.........welp  
> \+ this is the "same Sybil" of my other fic, "start()"  
> \+ hope you enjoy it~

The first time Sybil was let out into their new classroom, she was as excited as everyone else.

“It might take you a couple days to find it,” warned the Instructor, but no one paid them any attention. Everyone was too busy descending on everything: papers, canvas, paint, charcoal, protractors, terminals, books, child-sized pianos and beakers and ovens.

She spent the whole first day on the microphone, heart soaring, cells alight with images of glittering lights and everyone leaning in to hear her, everyone carrying her words with them. At show-and-tell she belted out her heart. Afterward she expected applause but heard instead, to her confusion, snickering from a group in the back of the room.

She blinked at the Instructor, whose hand was over their mouth.

“U-um,” they managed, face carefully composed, “maybe not Music, Sybil.”

All the strength left her body. She had nothing left to hold the microphone with, and none left to hold in her tears, and both fell loudly as the Instructor swooped in to comfort her.

“Oh, Sybil,” they cooed, “poor Sybil. Don’t worry, no one finds their Selection on their first try,” but then the second try came, and the third, and soon there were more tries than she could count.

Her sketches were inaccurate, incoherent. Her math and chemistry and physics formulas were fine, but uninspired, and went no further than anything already been written. Her writing was flawless, but no more dimensional than anything she wrote on. Eventually the Instructor stopped coddling her and just tossed over encouraging words as they typed notes into their terminal.

“It can take a couple days to find your Selection, right?” Sybil asked.

“Yes! Maybe even weeks,” the Instructor told her encouragingly.

“Or months,” the Instructor said when she next asked.

And then, later: “I wouldn’t be surprised if it even took a year or so.”

Sybil watched, feeling ill, as the Instructor continued tapping out their endless notes. “Don’t worry, Sybil,” they said idly, “don’t rush it. Your Selection will be one of the most important things in your life. So wait until you find something that speaks to you _completely._ You know, plenty of students have problems Selecting.”

But if anyone else was having trouble, they were good at keeping it secret. Students were forming easy friendships around their blooming talents. At loss, she wandered around from person to person.

“Want to play with me?” she asked, but the answer was always the same, always came after hesitation and forced smiles and quick glances that shared words she couldn’t hear.

“No thanks, Sybil. We’re already busy.”

“Then can I play with you?”

“Sure,” they agreed, but it was inevitable: once she missed the ball, it never came her way again. Once she tripped, no one waited for her to catch up.

One time, when Sybil asked, a girl perched in front of an easel responded, “Doing what?”

“Anything,” Sybil offered, straightening excitedly.

The girl regarded her. She was all colors, the mahogany of her skin freckled with cobalt and magenta, her fingertips splattered with gold and green. Sybil herself reddened, slightly.

“Can you paint?” the girl asked.

“Yeah,” Sybil said, and she pulled up an easel, dragged it beside the girl, glancing over curiously as she smattered colors on her palette. The girl was painting a bowl of fruit, so clearly that looked like it was going to render right off the canvas.

Sometime later, Sybil saw the girl looking over, and Sybil cringed. All she had managed are lumpy blotches. Sybil didn’t ask for an opinion and doesn’t get one, but the next time she asked to paint with the girl, she received the suggestion: “Maybe you should be spending time with something that you — um — like better.”

“I like painting!” Sybil protested.

“I’m sure you do,” the girl said quickly. “But maybe — there’s something — else. That you’d like, and be good at too. I mean — it’s — sort of a waste otherwise, right?”

“Yeah,” Sybil agreed, after a moment, and too strongly. “You’re right. It’s just a waste.”

She retreated back to the sandbox.

:::

_They exchanged names and pronouns and then he gestured at the chair across from his desk. Sybil sat, arranging her skirt around the seat, trying not to fidget._

_There was a terminal propped open on the desk, facing him. He thumbed up and down, scanning through what Sybil could only assume were all the notes and grades and reports that Sybil’s Instructor had compiled on her progress._

_“So,” he began finally._

_Sybil jumped. “Y-yes?”_

_“I understand you had a hard time deciding on your Selections._ ”

 _“I_ am _having a hard time,” Sybil corrected, looking down at the floor. She reached up impulsively to tug at her hair and then stopped herself and crammed her hands beneath her thighs to keep them still._

_“You still don’t know what you want to do?” the man said, brows lifting. Sybil’s legs crossed and fidgeted._

_“It’s just...” She risked a glance up at the man, who was looking back at her. She thought she read benevolence in his gaze — but when had she ever been right? She finished in a mumble._

_“It’s just that nothing I do seems...perfect.”_

:::

There wasn’t a rule about how early someone should have a Selection — but there was an expectation, unspoken, and heavier than anything that could have been written. Students were splitting up into groups of Architects, Dancers, Biologists — all things that Sybil tried, gamely, before people’s forced smiles cued that it was time for her to move on, and stop wasting her energy on something hopeless.

Claims were made, territory staked. Chemists and Chefs split the toy kitchen, Menagerists and Biologists the field lot. Civil Planners, the largest if most general group, had run of the rest.

No one wanted the sandbox and Sybil kept it for herself. She spent her free periods lounging on the warm satin of it, idly organizing out the larger stones into small piles: smooth coral orbs, irregular shards of turquoise, prickly dabs of gold and pearl and brown. Save for a rough gray rock that she had found near the sandbox’s bottom, she could sort everything in neat piles. Everything with those that looked like them, with friends.

_Perfect._

Sand was so boring and dirty from a distance, but close up it was all crystals and brightness and beauty: an endless universe she used to distract her from herself, and the pressure of finding a Selection. Sometimes trees cast shadows across her own and she imagined it was the shadow of a person coming by to see her.

 _”How are you, Sybil? Nervous? Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be fine,_ ” her theoretical anyone would say, soothingly, hand on her back. _”You’ll find something. In fact, you look like you’d be great at what I do. Why don’t you join me?”_

 _Alright,_ Sybil would respond, not too shyly and not too eagerly, and she’d reach up — toward the hand extended her — and allow herself to be pulled to her feet.

The conversation always went perfectly in her head, and when a group of Civil Planners encroached on Sybil’s sandbox, she couldn’t help herself — her hopes perked, so high and hard that she felt dizzy.

Until she realized they didn’t want to share with her; they wanted to evict.

“Come on, Sybil, get out!”

“No,” Sybil said, scooting herself deeper into the sand.

 _”Sybil,”_ one of them growled. Sybil remembered his name and pronoun from class introductions: West Ableton, the leader of their group. “Come _on_. More people can use it if you stop squatting around in there all day. You’re being selfish.”

“What do you want to do with sand anyway?” she demanded, glaring. “There’s hardly any sand in Cloudbank. Just go argue for part of the field at the next vote. That makes _much_ more sense.”

“There’s way more of them than there are of you,” another protested. “They need the space.”

As if Sybil herself didn’t deserve space? She grit her teeth, and turned her back to them so they couldn’t see her furious tears. Why were people always asking her to go away? If people didn’t want her around, couldn’t she at least have one place where they left her alone?

She took a deep breath, tried to measure out her voice in cool, even words.

“The next vote is going to expand into some of the forest area,” Sybil managed. “Why don’t you just take that space?”

One of them narrowed their eyes. “How do you know we’re going to get more land?”

Sybil shifted in the sand, piled it around her thighs. “One of the Instructors said it.” Not to her, technically. But the Instructors always discussed their plans in the same room, and it had been easy enough to sneak into the adjacent corridor and hang out in the shadows of a nearby shelf. So far they hadn’t yet discussed expelling her into the Country for her lack of talent, but she wasn’t yet convinced that it wasn’t a possibility.

“The fielders already have some forest,” West said. “I don’t know why they’d want more.”

Someone else sighed in exasperation. “I’m so tired of the field. When are they going to let us work with more? My sister said it took them another _year_ before they could vote on having anything else.”

Another year? Sybil tapped her cheek, thinking.

“What stopped them from voting earlier?” she asked.

“It just wasn’t an option on the ballots, I think.”

“But the ballots are always on the terminals. There has to be a way to add blanks,” Sybil realized.

“What? Why? How?”

“That’s just how terminals always work. Remember how they showed us last week in class? They wouldn’t change that part of it just for the vote.” The Planners looked skeptical, but her pulse was picking up. She smoothed out a patch of sand and dragged her finger across it, drawing.

“Alright, this is what you do — tell the fielders that they can take the new forest, and then vote for some of it to be pond or marsh. I bet once they realize that, they won’t even want the field anymore. And then you can take it.” She looked up at them excitedly. “And you can vote for a stream or woods or something — maybe a park — whatever you like!”

They grimaced at her.

“Just… _vote_ to have it in? Isn’t that against the rules?”

“If it is, I haven’t seen it,” Sybil said. “And I’ve looked at _all_ the rules.”

It was in part to see if she might be good at Politics, but it had taken her days to go through it all and she had fallen asleep on it three times.

The Planners still hesitated, and Sybil tried again.

“I’m _positive_ that’s how it works. Our classrooms are supposed to help us get ready for the real world, right? This is how Cloudbank really works. With voting.” She leaned back, pleased. She had figured it out.

“And if you can vote for anything,” she concluded, “why do you need my sandbox?”

The Planners exchanged glances, and Sybil sighed in relief as they finally nodded and left.

When the class assembled for the next vote, she saw the Planners and fielders nodding at each other excitedly over the terminals, and she smiled to herself. She know the field students had been wanting access to a water feature for a while — something else she’d overheard from her casual wandering. Finally they’d get what they want, and the Planners would have never known they could vote for new things at all if it wasn’t for her.

Even if she didn’t share a Selection with them — or anyone, yet — she could contribute _something_.

After the votes were tallied, she watched with the rest as the Instructor drew out their class’s new boundaries. With some delight, she noted that her suggestions had been followed: their classroom boundaries now included both marshland and a copse of oak around a park. She didn’t suspect anything, didn’t even realize what happened until the diagram was finished and everyone began chattering excitedly about the new space.

“Where’s the sandbox?” Sybil blurted. Her voice was loud with shock; everyone quieted, and beneath their stares a mortified flush rose on her cheeks. She realized, belatedly, that she was standing.

The Instructor spelled it out, slow, like she was still a child. “No one voted for the sandbox, Sybil.”

“But — but that’s _my_ spot,” Sybil cried, and this time she couldn’t stop her voice from cracking. The students looked at each other, communicating, as always, something that she just couldn’t parse.

“What is it?” she demanded. _”What?”_

“Come on, Sybil,” one of the Planners called out from the back. “Everyone was done using it.”

 _”I_ wasn’t —“

“The sandbox was just for kids,” someone else added — West Ableton, as if it had been his idea the whole time.

“But,” Sybil started again, “it was the only — it was my only —“

What did she have left? Her nails dug into her palms; her eyes watered. She scanned the room, searching, impossibly, for allies. No one met her stare.

“Everyone voted, Sybil,” the Instructor said gently. “The majority of your peers wanted space for other things. That’s what’s fair.”

“It’s not fair to _me_ ,” Sybil shouted, but something — maybe the Instructor’s words, maybe hers, maybe the combination — broke something in the air. The pity stiffening the silence began to melt.

“Don’t be selfish, Sybil.”

“It’s not like your Selection is going to have anything to do with sand.”

“Maybe now you’ll find something better!”

“Our classroom is just like the real world,” West continued sagely. “You can’t hold on to things forever.”

They were all nodding and glancing at each other, like it made sense. What made sense? She didn’t get it. She held her head.

“Fine,” she burst, “fine, but — but I need a little bit of space — in the new boundary — maybe if the field lot could only use the north and west parts of the marsh, then —“

 _”Sybil_ ,” West snapped, “what are you talking about? We haven’t even gotten out there and you’re already trying to tell people how to use it? Stop being so bossy!”

“I’m _not bossy_!” Sybil shrieked, and the room filled again with silence, with relentless stares. She looked at the Instructor and saw only that they were already typing out something on their terminal — more notes, more unknown details on her strangeness, her faulty and imperfect development. She turned and ran out before anyone could say anything else, and no one followed as she raced into the new woods, already rising in pillars of light out of the sand.

:::

_“So that’s ‘Case 1?’” Sybil said, voice raising._

_“That’s how it’s referred to in your compilation, yes.”_

_Sybil hissed out a sigh. He stroked his beard, leaned forward._

_”It disturbs you.”_

_“Of course it does! I was just a kid. It was unfair. And then they just call it — Case 1?” She felt her eyes begin to prickle._ Oh, no. _She bowed her head and reached up to rub her brow as if she were having a headache._

 _She thought at the time that they just hadn’t realized how badly it had hurt her. But they had known — her_ Instructor _had known. They had known it had been formative enough to put in her compilation. And no one had done anything._

_She swallowed and tipped her head back._

_”Well,” she said finally, with a humorless laugh, “what could I have expected them to do about it, anyway?”_

_It wasn’t a kind thing to say about an Instructor. She glanced at him, waiting for judgment to fall, but he just sat back in his chair._

_“Indeed,” he said. “What could you have expected?”_

_“Anything,” she grumbled._ “Something.”

_But then, she had just been one whining girl. For the majority of the class, everything was fine._


	2. throw()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy~

That day didn’t do anything for her popularity, especially with the Planners and anyone else out in the woods and field. Every time she wandered by, they grew quiet and stared at her until she was far enough away that she could only hear their smothered laughter.

She began wandering around campus again; but if it had been hard to stick with anyone before, it was impossible now. Groups were solidifying, and she spent long hours on the class terminal, querying desperately for any subject that might appeal to her.

All she needed was one Selection. She didn’t even care if she found a second one; just one would be fine. One good reason to convince people she was worth being around. One good way to make people happy to be near her.

She began hanging out in the kitchen, on a seat at the far side. A couple Culinary students allowed her to play sous chef until she accidentally measured out salt instead of sugar; then they just let her observe, and pay her “rent” by cleaning up afterwards.

It wasn’t that bad. She enjoyed putting the variety of spatulas in their right place, matching pots with their lids, labeling the assortment of powders and syrups and liquids. After she finished organizing the entire area, she was secretly pleased when she noticed the time students spent searching for beaters and skillets and flour decreased.

“We need more things to bake,” someone sighed one day, “to practice,” and before she could stop herself Sybil said, “Why not make things for people’s birthdays?”

The students turned to her, one of them jumping, as if they had forgotten she was there.

“That’s a great idea,” someone else said, smiling warmly, and Sybil smiled back as others agreed.

“Yeah, I like it.”

“I bet people would really enjoy it!”

“Who’s coming up next?”

“Ken Tylar,” Sybil said, almost immediately, and someone laughed.

“How do you know that?”

Sybil blinked, and then made what she hoped was a casual shrug. “Um, he said it the other day.” Not to her — actually, he’d been saying it to Carlton Rayes, in the woods. Sybil would have heard more if she hadn’t realized a moment later what they were doing there together and quickly fled the scene.

“He likes chocolate,” Sybil added, hoping no one noticed her deep flush. She reached for a strand of hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Um, so maybe you could do...chocolate cupcakes, with vanilla icing.”

“Thanks, Sybil. That sounds like a great idea.”

“Plain chocolate and vanilla is so _boring_ though,” Turner Ellegan protested, and Sybil started.

“I-it’s…maybe it’s boring, but —“

“What about strawberry?” someone asked.

“And maybe mocha, instead of straight chocolate?”

The debate went on and by the time Ken’s birthday came around, they had settled on a small mocha cake with chocolate ganache and raspberries. They allowed Sybil to choose the plates and utensils and she set the table while students cooed over the glimmery frosting.

She stepped back and watched Ken Tylar’s face carefully as he took a bite. His brow furrowed — and smoothed again, quickly. She watched as he struggled through a swallow. Cake crumbs were wedged in his forced smile.

“It’s delicious,” he declared, “thank you,” and everyone cheered and began chattering and demanding treats for their birthdays too.

As the party went on, Ken ate only half of his first piece and discreetly passed the remainder to Carlton. Sybil pursed her lips in frustration.

They should have listened to her. He would have been so happy to receive chocolate.

:::

_“So it was really your idea? The parties? And how the students interested in culinary arts began to organize events on their own?”_

_Why did this matter?_

_“Anyone could have thought of it,” Sybil said, shrugging._

_“That is patently untrue. In your school’s entire history, no one ever has.” He looked down at the terminal again. “In fact, your class is going to graduate with the most accolades of any in Cloudbank. That was due, in large part, to the incredible innovation and interaction your class demonstrated. You were the earliest class in your year to discover you could add unlisted features to your classroom. You were also the first students to begin working together on unassigned projects — like these birthday parties.”_

_She huffed impatiently. This was getting ridiculous._

_“So, what are you saying? That my Selection should be ‘Throwing Birthday Parties?’”_

_He smiled at her, broadly. “Not quite.”_

:::

Birthday treats spread soon to the other classes. The kitchen students managed it mostly on their own, though Sybil always had to remind them that they’d promised she could choose the plates at serving time.

“It’s done already, Sybil, it’s fine,” they’d argue sometimes, when the table was already partially set, but Sybil just gathered up the plates again and replaced them with something more appropriate. White porcelain for things with chocolate — pastels for vanilla — glass bowls for ice cream and puddings. Every time she fixed things just right, she felt a sense of relief.

_Perfect._

It was just as it had been when she examined and piled up grains of sand in the sandbox — doing it, and having it _just so_ , kept her mind occupied and unknotted.

_It looks beautiful,_ a theoretical passerby would murmur in her brain, _you’re so talented,_ and Sybil would beam to herself.

It didn’t mean, however, that she had any say in what the kitchen students decided to make. They liked preparing food for others, but on their own terms, much to Sybil’s frustration. Tayla Markin received lime-and-pear tarts that were stunning but incredibly, in-edibly sour. Delanne Parvette cooed over fondant kittens that Sybil found later tumbling in the trash.

“Maybe there’s a way you can make something that’s pretty _and_ tastes good,” Sybil tried one day. And when the kitchen students all glared: “I...I mean...isn’t it just a waste otherwise?”

“It’s _our_ Selection, Sybil,” one of the students snapped, “let us handle it,” and Sybil shut her mouth and continued to put away the dishes.

Lusia Panay’s birthday was next, and Sybil wasn’t sure what they’d do for it, because Lusia had stopped speaking to people after her dog died a couple weeks earlier. She wouldn’t even respond to the Instructor (who didn’t force the issue, just shrugged and typed notes into their terminal). Lusia vanished during free periods and even Sybil had no idea where she was until she stumbled accidentally into her in the woods. Lusia was kneeling down on the ground with a shovel, and after a while Sybil realized that she was making a grave.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Sybil blurted, and Lusia jumped.

“Wh — what? Sybil? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Sybil admitted. Any surprise she might have felt at Lusia actually _talking_ was washed away by her discomfort at being discovered. She sank behind a tree. And then, because she couldn’t take it back anyway, she peered out again. “Um, maybe you shouldn’t bury your pet here.”

“Why not?” Lusia asked, bristling, and Sybil started.

“No, it’s not like that, I don’t mean that you _shouldn’t_ —“ She stopped, took a breath, tried again. “It’s just — you know — people might vote for something to put over it. Over the grave. And then it’ll be destroyed.”

“Oh.” Lusia considered. “I’ll just tell everyone not to.”

“Oh, yeah. Good idea,” Sybil said, noncommittally, twining her hair around a finger. The Civil Planners still made up the majority in their class, and she doubted they’d have any interest in leaving land untouched when it could be used for something they wanted.

“Well,” Sybil said, “I guess I should leave you alone,” and she started to back away.

“Wait,” Lusia said, standing, and Sybil jumped.

“What? What did I do?”

“Oh — nothing. It’s just...um.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Could you stay a little?”

“Why?” Sybil said in surprise and Lusia grimaced.

“I mean — you don’t _have_ to — but maybe — if you’re not doing anything —“

“No! I mean, I’m not doing anything, I’ll stay,” Sybil said quickly, “sure.” She walked forward, picking her way through fallen leaves and loose dirt. Lusia smiled faintly as Sybil stood beside her, and they looked down at the grave.

“I’m...um...sorry about your dog,” Sybil said, feeling uneasy in the quiet. “You must have really liked it.”

Lusia looked away. “I know it’s stupid of me.”

“Huh? No, I didn’t mean — that is, you’re not —“ _Stop, Sybil._ “I have no idea what you mean,” she said, finally, and Lusia just pursed her lips.

“Really.” Her voice was flat.

It would have been impossible to miss the snickers and exasperated sighs that had started with someone finding Lusia sobbing in a bathroom and continued with her self-imposed silence.

_“Why won’t she say anything?”_

_“How weird. Was she in love with her pet or something?”_

_“It’s been weeks already, when is she going to get over it?”_

“Really,” Sybil said firmly.

Lusia narrowed her eyes, then looked away. For another while there was nothing, just the sound of the breeze as it rustled the leaves. It lifted Lusia’s dark, wiry hair so it tickled Sybil’s arm, and it carried too a soft and pleasant sweet smell that might have been Lusia’s shampoo. Or maybe something else, a scent that rose directly from her fawn skin. Sybil fidgeted. Lusia was pretty, much prettier than her.

“I know I should re-cycle him properly,” Lusia said, finally, voice barely rising over the wind. “And I know I should get over it. It’s already been... _weeks_...but I can’t. It’s hard. I barely even had him. He got a virus or something, and he was still just a puppy. I thought I’d have him for much longer.”

“You can get another puppy,” Sybil suggested. Lusia’s fists tightened.

“I’m tired of hearing that! It won’t be — the _same_. I just want _Cable_ back,” she said, and her voice broke. “I hate this. What’s the point of having a pet or — or _anything,_ if it will always just — _end_ like this?”

“That’s kind of how I felt about my sandbox,” Sybil admitted. “It’s — I mean, I know it’s not really the same. But it’s horrible, when something’s taken away from you. I hate it.”

Lusia sniffed. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I didn’t vote for that, you know.”

“Oh...thanks.”

Sybil had run out of things to say. “I’m sorry,” she offered again, as Lusia’s shoulders began to shake. Swallowing, Sybil put an arm over her. Lusia pressed her face against Sybil’s collarbone, and though Sybil hadn’t been this physically close to anyone before, it felt natural for her to wrap her arms around Lusia’s quivering body.

“I bet you’re going to be a great Menagerist one day,” Sybil murmured, chest aching. “Or maybe — maybe a Veterinarian, or something.”

Lusia sputtered out a laugh. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Sybil stiffened. “Is it? S-sorry, it’s just — it’s just obvious you really like them. Animals, I mean. If you care about them so much.”

If only there was something that could break her heart this powerfully — then maybe she’d know who she was supposed to be. Thus far the worst that had ever happened to her was probably the loss of the sandbox, but it didn’t seem likely she could extrapolate anything from that.

“Maybe I care too much,” Lusia sniffed. “I don’t know that this can be my Selection if it can make me so sad. I just...” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever even be able to look at another dog again without thinking of mine. I know that sounds dumb.”

“It doesn’t,” Sybil said fiercely. She tightened her hug, and Lusia squeezed back, and when the bell for their next class rang, Lusia finally laughed, softly but genuinely. She straightened out of her embrace, wiping her eyes. The place she left felt cold and Sybil rubbed her arms, smothering her disappointment.

“You’re not too bad, Sybil,” Lusia said, with what seemed to be a real smile. “And you give good hugs too. You should do it more often.”

“Oh — okay,” Sybil said, and and couldn’t help a smile from breaking out across her own face, so wide that it hurt. She hesitated, then abruptly reached forward and hugged Lusia again. Her chuckle echoed in Sybil’s ear.

“See? You’re great at it. And — and thanks for listening.”

“Of course! I’m...glad I could help. I m-mean, I’m really happy I could help.”

They both gave the grave one last good pat, and then walked back to the class building together.

:::

_“And then there’s Case 2.”_

_Sybil frowned. She felt herself sinking down into her chair. “I bet I know what that is.”_

_He tilted his head, slightly. “Do you regret what you did?”_

_Did she? She only had to think for a bit._

_“No.” She straightened, shoulders bunched, knuckles white as they gripped the edge of her chair. “It’s what they deserved.”_

:::

It was Lusia’s smile that flashed across Sybil’s mind when she realized what the kitchen students had planned for her birthday: red velvet cupcakes, crowned with marzipan. That would have been fine on its own, if it weren’t for the fact the marzipan was thumbed into the shape of various dog breeds.

“She won’t like them,” Sybil said the moment she set her eyes on them, and everyone sighed loudly.

“Sybil, please not now, we’re already finished with —“

“She _won’t like them,_ ” Sybil repeated, unsure if they had heard her properly, but now she was sure they had, because they turned to her with glares.

_”Sy —_ “

“She doesn’t even want to _look_ at a dog right now,” Sybil told them fiercely. “Didn’t I say that earlier? Why won’t you listen to me? Why do you only care about yourself?”

To her shock, their only response was laughter.

“Look who’s talking!”

“As if you care about anyone else but yourself, Sybil. Or what’s _perfect._ ”

_”Perfect,_ ” Turner Ellegan said in a strangely high voice, _”sooo perfect,_ ” and it was only after a couple repetitions that Sybil realized they were trying to mimic her.

“I — what? I don’t say that,” she said in confusion. Did she?

“Don’t think we can’t hear you,” Turner said, eyes rolling. “You say it all the time. Or — or do you really not notice?”

“Whether I say it or not doesn’t matter!” Sybil snapped, feeling her face getting hot. She pulled at her hair, coiling it into a stranglehold around her index finger. “The point is, you can’t give those to Lusia. You’re going to hurt her.”

”Is she _still_ going on about that? What’s the matter with her?” Turner crossed their arms. “Didn’t that dog die ages ago?”

“What does it matter when it died? She’s still sad about it!”

“It’s just — weird. Stuff dying and things changing is just how things go,” they pointed out. “Not giving these to her isn’t going to change any of it. Besides, everyone worked so hard to make these.”

Sybil crossed her arms as murmurs of assent rose in the kitchen. “Don’t pretend that you actually care about whether she gets over it or not,” she hissed. “Or that you care about the _effort_ you’ve all made, either. All you care about is making the next best pretty thing, not whether anyone actually enjoys it.”

Turner’s russet skin was reddening from their neck to their ears. “What do you know?” they demanded. “You can barely do anything. Unless they make _Bossyness_ and _Being Annoying_ official Selections, you’re going to stay in this class forever. And that’s only if they don’t kick you out into the Country first.”

Sybil growled at them, too angry for real words — her fists were so tight her nails were cutting into her palms — things were becoming red and blurry and her whole body was quaking. She couldn’t be here anymore she couldn’t be here anymore _she couldn’t she couldn’t she_ —

She stormed off as Turner called, “And don’t come back!”

She ran into the woods, more to burn off her fury than anything else. Lusia didn’t deserve this. Lusia was kind and wonderful and didn’t deserve this, those hideous marzipan dogs, and especially the crimson paper plates it looked like the kitchen students planned to serve them on.

_I’m not going to let them I’m not going to let them I’M NOT I’M NOT I’M NOT GOING TO LET THEM HURT HER I’M NOT —_

By the time she made a couple circuits in the woods, she was out of breath, and the world had cleared up again. The sky was becoming burnished; it was almost time for Lusia’s party. She walked back into the building, calmly, steadily, gaze unmoving as she passed as usual through the conversations happening around her.

“I heard Lusia’s going to freak out about whatever the kitchen students made for her birthday —“

“Really? No way.”

“If it’ll make her say something, maybe we should go.”

Sybil waited in the common room, frowning at the decorations — streamers and balloons in olive green and silver and cyan, a riot that made her head ache. Some of the kitchen students spotted her and one said, “Is it _perfect,_ Sybil?”

“It isn’t,” she told them, “but I wasn’t expecting it to be.”

They laughed but she didn’t see what was so funny.

The class gathered, Lusia scanning the room as she entered. She saw Sybil and smiled and gave her a small wave, and then — to everyone’s surprise — gestured for Sybil to sit beside her. Sybil stepped forward, and the crowd parted for her. She heard them murmur her name.

_”Sybil?_ Since when...?”

She ignored them. This position was better; it was much closer. She hugged Lusia.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, “everything will be okay.”

Lusia’s brow furrowed, but she nodded acknowledgement.

Sybil was ready, she was ready. When Turner came out with the tray of cupcakes (on a baking pan — _really?_ ), they scowled at Sybil but said nothing else. Students craned to see the treat as they set it down in front of Lusia, and for an instant her eyes widened and —

Sybil grabbed the edge of the tray and flipped it over. The cupcakes tumbled off onto the table, and for good measure she shoved the baking pan upside down on top of them, smushing them completely.

The class, which had just begun to sing _happy birthday,_ fell silent. Even Turner, who had a fat smear of icing and the remnants of a bulldog on their apron, was too appalled to say anything.

And then their shock turned into rage.

_”Sy —_ “ they began, and was interrupted by a sudden hysterical laugh.

It was Lusia. She was clutching her stomach, doubled over, tipping out of her chair. “ _Thank you_ ,” she managed in gasps of breath, “oh, Sybil, _thank you._ ” It was her first phrase to the class in weeks; she slapped the table, splattering frosting.

“Y-you’re welcome,” Sybil said. Until now she hadn’t thought about how Lusia would react, but she definitely hadn’t been expecting this.

“Lusia,” Turner gasped, “but this — this is _your_ —“

“I’m sorry, Turner,” Lusia said, wiping her eyes, “but I’ve been dreading my birthday for _weeks_ because of these treat things. They just — I’m sorry, but they just don’t — taste very _good._ ”

“She’s right,” Ken Tylar chuckled from the back. “Wow, I thought I might have been the only one who thought that...”

“You definitely weren’t! I couldn’t even finish mine when I had it —“

“Who mixes cumin with _cream cheese_ —“

“Culinary is _my_ Selection,” Turner snapped. They gestured around to the other kitchen students, who were all either pale or red. _”Our_ Selection! If you don’t like what we make, it’s on you! You’re the ones who have no taste!”

But the entire class was nodding and releasing helpless snickers, chattering to each other. _Exchanging glances._ Sybil felt something in her chest catch and swallowed, tugging at her hair.

She hadn’t thought her heroic save out this far, but this wasn’t good. Right? Sybil looked around but the only one not a part of the chatter was the Instructor, who had apparently snuck into the room sometime earlier. Their eyes met. The Instructor nodded at her — not an encouragement, just a greeting. Then they stared at Turner and began to type into their terminal.

“H-hey,” Sybil said uncertainly, “maybe —“

“Look around, Turner,” Lusia said, standing, slamming her hands down on the table, smushed cake and all. “Even if you don’t think your baking sucks, clearly we all do. Who’s the majority here?”

That was it. Sybil stood too. “It isn’t _completely_ bad,” she snapped, and Lusia started.

“S-Sybil?”

“It’s just — just —“ The eyes were falling on her now — burning, boring. She took a breath. “It’s their Selection. It’s what they _love._ They aren’t _bad_ at it — they’re just — more, um, creative. Lusia,” she said desperately as the silence thickened, “for example, I bet you would have liked it if you had gotten cheesecake rather than — than —“

She waved over what remained of the puppy monstrosity. “Right?” Sybil begged. “Cheesecake, with strawberry syrup?”

“Yeah,” Lusia agreed uncertainly. “I would have. That’s my favorite.”

“We can make that,” one of the kitchen students said hastily, amidst nods, eager to climb out of scrutiny.

“Yeah, we could make that pretty fast —“

“No, there’s no more cream cheese left, we used it all for —“

“There is,” Sybil interrupted, “there should be, behind the jams on the left shelf in the fridge,” and the students raced off to check, and called out confirmation. Sybil started cleaning up the mess, and soon others were pitching in. Plates (a thin, light blue ceramic) were laid out on a fresh tablecloth (butter yellow linen), and within the next couple hours cheesecake cupcakes had been made, and were a huge success.

Afterward, while cleaning up yet again that day, a shadow fell across the soapy counter in front of her.

“Hey,” Turner said, and Sybil whirled around.

“What?” she demanded.

“You were out of line, ruining our hard work.”

“I don’t care,” she told him, turning back and pushing so hard on her sponge that it disgorged a foamy tsunami. “I told you it would hurt her. And that your baking tastes bad. I warned you. You should’ve listened from the beginning.”

“Yeah,” they sighed, to her utter astonishment. “I should’ve.”

After a pause, they muttered, “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. About you being bossy and annoying. And…and thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sybil said with surprise. They patted her shoulder and she jumped.

“Oh — sorry,” they said, withdrawing.

“No, it’s...it’s okay,” Sybil told them. She bit her lip, then stepped forward and hugged them. Now it was Turner who jumped, but then they laughed a little and patted her back again.

“You know,” they said cheerfully as the two of them pulled apart, “I think this is the first time anyone’s enjoyed anything we’ve made so much. Maybe the first time anyone’s enjoyed it at all, I guess.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Maybe,” she ventured.

They grabbed another sponge and began to help her clean the counter.

“By the way, how did you know what dessert was Lusia’s favorite?”

Sybil shrugged. “She must’ve mentioned it sometime.”

“And you remembered?”

“Yeah.”

“So…do you know what other people like too?”

“Yeah.”

“Like who?”

Sybil frowned. “Do you really want me to name _everyone_?”

“Uh...um, no, I guess. That’s fine.”

Silence, for a while. The sponges squished across the counter. The sink rapped as they wrung water into it in fat droplets. Then Turner leaned their back against the counter, eyes bright.

“So...what dessert do you think we should make for the next party?”

:::

_“I understand Turner Ellegan has been doing a fine job in Culinary.”_

_“Of course. They always had the talent. And they always loved it.”_

_“Perhaps. But after this — after your Case 2, that is — Ellegan excelled.”_

_Sybil nodded. “They’ve been accepted into their concentration school already.”_

_“Thanks to you.”_

_“Wh-what? No.” Sybil sat on her hands again. “They made everything on their own. It must not say this in the compilation, but I never helped with the baking. I’m horrible at it. I just cleaned and set the table.”_

_The man stroked his beard. “Do you really believe that?”_

_What was he talking about? What else should she believe?_

_This was turning into a strange, uncomfortable conversation. All the interviews her Instructor had set up for her before had ended with forced smiles and encouragements to find something else that she was meant for. This was the first time one had lasted so long. And they hadn’t even discussed the man’s Selections at all._

_What was he trying to get out of her?_

_What did he think she had to give?_

 


	3. allocate()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy~

If Turner remembered that they’d banished her from the kitchen, they didn’t say anything about it, and Sybil continued hanging with the crowd there. Kindly, they all tried to see if she was any good at decorating pasties, but her hand shook terribly and more than once she dropped the frosting squeezer right onto the cakes.

“Just let me choose the plates,” she begged.

“But how are you going to figure out your Selection doing that all day?” Turner asked skeptically. They tugged her sleeve. “Come on, if you keep working at it, maybe Culinary will be great for you after all.”

“No,” Sybil huffed, “I don’t like it enough, I’m not good enough at it,” and they shrugged.

“Fine. Whatever you want.” They considered. “I guess table setting could mean you’re meant for Interior Design?”

“No.” She’d already tried that simulation. Her rooms had been (in her opinion) fine, but the person overseeing her had commented they were “too sterile.”

“Try something else,” he had encouraged, waving his hands, “something a little more — vibrant. A little more fun-loving.”

“But they’re perfect _this_ way,” Sybil had argued. She had moved some of the furniture around just to appease him but even then the whole place had been...what else had he said? _Uninspired._

“Maybe something where you care for houses, then?” Turner suggested.

That was a new one. “Maybe,” Sybil said, and she scheduled the simulator for that afternoon.

It was a disaster. She could find all the right equipment and followed the manual precisely, but when they handed her a simulated infant, it was fitful and inconsolable for the entire hour. Listening to it gave her a headache, and when Lusia stumbled into her later, lying on one of the couches on the common area, she laughed.

“I tried that one too,” she admitted, sitting down beside her. Sybil scooted over to give her space. “It’s funny — even though I don’t think babies and animals are too different, I like animals way better.”

She was carrying a rabbit, and placed it in Sybil’s lap. Sybil stiffened, and Lusia smiled encouragingly.

“It’s okay! She doesn’t bite. Go on, pet her.”

Sybil raised her hand carefully. “Like…this?” She placed her hand softly, motionlessly, on the rabbit’s head. Impatient, Lusia grabbed it and made it stroke the length of the rabbit’s body.

“Like _that_ ,” she said, and Sybil pursed her lips and continued petting the rabbit on her own. The rabbit — and Lusia’s hand — were both incredibly warm, and soft. Their pulses fluttered against hers.

“See? She’s really nice, isn’t she?”

It was…alright. The more Sybil pet it, the more its dark fur came off in her hand and tracked onto her white dress. She tried to brush the fur off, but it was so fine she only managed to move it around. Her headache deepened.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Sybil said, hoping she sounded enthusiastic enough. “It’s…so…um. Puffy?”

Lusia beamed. “She’s an angora,” she said, “they can be hard to take care of because their fur gets tangled easily, and they always need to have hay, and sometimes you can even use pinecones to…”

Lusia talked on and on. Sybil nodded, surreptitiously tugging up her sleeves and adjusting her skirt so the rabbit sat on her bare legs. Gooseflesh prickled all the way down to her ankles as the rabbit resettled itself on her knees. It stared at her from beneath its imperiously fluffy brows. The twitch of its nose seemed disgruntled.

Even though Sybil herself didn’t find anything too interesting about animals, it was fun to watch Lusia talk about them. Her whole body moved animatedly, her broad gestures almost swatting Sybil or the rabbit. Lusia was far now from the silence and the tears she had clutched at her dog’s grave, and Sybil smiled.

“Hm? What is it?” Lusia asked.

“Oh — nothing. It’s — it’s just — great.”

“Animals?” Lusia asked enthusiastically.

“No. Well, I mean, yeah,” Sybil said when Lusia’s face fell, “b-but, more than that — how much you like animals. It’s great.”

It was the same with Turner. She loved to watch them work, and went out of her way to be in the kitchen whenever they were at it — measuring flour out with infinite care, blanketing fresh fruits into pastry dough, painting them shiny with egg whites. Both Lusia and Turner seemed to appreciate her company and her listening ear and before long she could keep up with both of them in conversation, whether they were discussing equestrian husbandry, or butter temperatures, or egg binding in finches, or the uses of grapeseed oil.

She was good at keeping up. It was fun in its own way — hearing them, and searching for the right words to say next, and saying them. It was as easy as matching stones together, as putting ladles and pots in the right drawers.

And they were good practice. From there, she matched herself up easily with all the other kitchen students: Sofya Tame, who could make a stew of anything; Lagin Denny, whose cakes always towered (he was obviously going to take Architecture as his second). Then she met Lusia’s friends (Calen Allbright, who was rarely away from their class’s marsh; Bella Argyla, who collected winged insects), and then theirs, and theirs, until it was nothing anymore for people to call her by her name — “Hey, Sybil! _Syb_!” — and it was nothing for her to go along with whatever was happening, whether it was sketching new libraries or poring over anatomy textbooks.

Had there really been a time when she had been so unpopular she had been relegated to arranging rocks in a sandbox? Now no one chased her away. During one of the major class votes, the one at the end of their official school year, Turner even called out to her.

“Syb. You’re being pretty quiet.”

“H-huh?” Sybil blinked as everyone turned to her.

“What do you think?”

She looked up at the map. One of the Civil Planners had sketched out the boundaries of their new class premises, for which their class had access to new acreage and material for a couple new buildings. All they needed to do was decide what to build, but they had all been at it unsuccessfully since morning. Voice volumes and arguments were escalating. Everyone wanted something different from everyone else, and a solid majority had yet to be formed on anything, even amongst the Planners. Structures were penned in and scribbled over, and erased, and penned in again. Sybil rubbed her head, nursing a budding headache.

There was less than an hour until voting time and once again, with frustration, the student at the board erased everything that was in the map boundary.

“A _lot_ of that space needs to be kept clear for pasture,” Lusia said, “right, Sybil? For horses?”

“Pasture!” someone else cried. “ _Horses_? Lusia, no one will be able to use that space except you —“

“That is _not_ —“

“Hey, come on, quiet,” Turner interrupted, raising their hands and waving them until silence fell again. They repeated themself: “Sybil, what do you think?”

“Why do you think I know what to do?” she asked uneasily, patting her hair.

“I just want to see what ideas you’ve got.”

“I don’t really...have any ideas that are any better than anything that anyone else...”

But Turner was rolling their eyes. “Yeah, okay, I know, sure. Now, what are your ideas?”

They were listening as intently as they did whenever she gave them menu advice. Seeing that they weren’t going to back down, she stood and walked toward the map, holding out her hand. Skeptical, the student there handed her the stylus, and she began to draw.

“I don’t think there’s enough room for horses,” she started, swallowing and not looking at Lusia. “Sorry. But even if we converted out entire boundary into field, it wouldn’t be enough, if we wanted them to live comfortably.”

She continued staring at the board, not wanting to see Lusia’s disappointment. “I do still think it’s important to have field area, but maybe something smaller — more usable by everyone. This is Cloudbank, after all, not” — she coughed — “the _Country._ Maybe a park.”

She made a blob for the majority of the map and labeled in with the word PARK, and then added into it other blobs from her mental list of things others else had mentioned wanting — CONSERVATORY, LAKE, BIRDS. “Lusia, you wanted more birds at least, right? Well, we could make space for them to roost in certain parts of buildings,” she explained, framing the PARK with COTES stacked on DORMITORIES on top of CLASSROOMS and OFFICES.

“We could also use the roof area,” West Ableton said. His voice still had a grating effect on her, even years after the sandbox incident, and for a while it looked like Sybil would just ignore him.

But it was a good idea. Sybil started to draw it out, then stopped, and handed West the stylus.

“It’s your Selection. Put it on,” she told him, and he did, setting it in the right perspective, even adding detail to her previous scribbles.

“Hello? There _still_ needs to be a track,” Zarah Tanbaum snapped, crossing her arms, and Sybil crossed her arms back. Zarah had been loud the whole day.

“Why?” Sybil demanded, and Zarah reddened.

“Because I need to _run,_ obviously.”

Sybil rapped her cheek. “Does it need to be a _track_?”

“Well, it needs to be a lot of clear, flat space. A _lot_ of space.”

“There’s just no space for a track to be on its own,” Sybil muttered, turning to the map. “But maybe...if it was winding around the park...”

West clapped his hands. “That’s it! We can still pave it, and mark off the miles. How’s that, Zarah?”

“It needs to be a loop,” Zarah protested, and West nodded and connected the ends of the track they drew around the park.

“Now it’s too small,” Zarah said with irritation. “It’s not even a mile.”

Sybil stared at the map, and then shook her head. “Any bigger and it’ll cut into space for other buildings,” she said. “This is functional enough. Next?”

She looked across the class, and one by one they worked through everyone’s features, incorporating each. At some point, their Instructor entered the room with a box of terminals, and seemed surprised to see everyone still discussing.

“It’s time to vote,” they announced, shaking the box.

“Not yet,” Sybil responded absentmindedly, tapping her cheek. “We’re not done. Who’s next?”

Silence followed. She turned confused. “Hello?” she called. “Who’s next?”

Someone was snickering in the back, she realized, and her hands dropped to her sides. “W-what?” she asked, and Turner said, “Nothing, Sybil, it’s nothing. Right, Instructor?”

He exchanged glances with the Instructor, who was frowning. “Fine,” they said finally, taking a seat near the back. “You may proceed. For twenty minutes — then I need to submit your votes.”

“Twenty minutes is fine,” Sybil said turning back to the board. They only had one quadrant left to detail out. It was comprised almost entirely of woods and a small lake.

“It’d be nice to have a little cabin there,” someone mused.

_“Not_ on the lake edge, for the last time! It has a very unique and valuable biome, and people shouldn’t be stomping around it!”

“Can we build a house in the middle?” Sybil asked. “With a bridge leading to it?”

West snorted. “That seems weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Sybil murmured to herself, tugging at her hair again. “It’s just right.”

A perfect way to get everyone what they wanted. A building, and no people stomping on the shore. She waited for further protests, and when there were none, she gestured at West, who penned in LAKEHOUSE with a wrinkled nose. They continued on: squared off an area for COMMUNITY GARDEN, pinched off part of the lake for SWIMMING HOLE. Finally, a bit of WOODS was carved off for PICNIC AREA.

“Alright!” Sybil said quickly. “It’s perfect. Let’s vote.”

“Wait,” West said, and Sybil tensed. “Wait. The picnic area’s so small. You can barely fit two tables in there. Can’t we just take off more of the woods?”

“ _No_ ,” Sybil said. “It’s fine the way it is.”

“Sybil’s right,” Lusia said, “it’s just fine,” and finally Sybil dared to look back at her. Lusia’s mouth was thin, and she was wringing her hands. The part of the woods Sybil had tried to maintain was the approximate area where she had buried her dog.

“Don’t do it,” Sybil continued to protest, trying to keep her voice even. “This amount of woods is _perfect,_ any less and the air won’t be as clean and there will be less habitat for the Biologists and not enough scenery for the Painters and even if there’s room for picnickers there won’t be enough shade when the summer campaigns begin and —“

“Sybil, calm down. It’s not like it’s a sandbox,” he said, with a glance and a grin, and he extended PICNIC AREA with a flourish.

“We can definitely,” West mumbled, scribbling and taking up what was left of the woods entirely, “add another office space —“

“ _West_ ,” Sybil hissed.

“ _Sybil,_ ” he hissed back.

“ _Both_ of you,” the Instructor snapped. “And everyone else! It’s time to vote.”

“Do it as we said, okay?” Sybil called out as terminals were passed around. “Alright? This is what we agreed on. Everything except that last part that West did on his own. Alright?”

She was soothed to see students chatting and nodding to each other excitedly as they bowed over the terminals. Lusia passed one to Sybil and Sybil quickly filled it out. She knew the map so well she barely needed to reference it, and her heart raced. Finally everyone would be able to agree on something. Finally their class would be a place where everyone had everything they needed to be happy.

:::

_“I bet I know what Case 3 is.”_

_”If you’re talking about that vote at the end of your sophomore year,” the man said, “you would be incorrect.”_

_“What?” Sybil sputtered. “Why?”_

_Hadn’t that vote been hideous enough to warrant staining her entire compilation?_

_“As unfortunate as it was, that particular incident was a failure on the part of your entire class, not something reflective purely of your individual behavior. Though,” he said thoughtfully, prodding at the terminal screen, “your Instructor does point out that you went against their instruction and delayed the vote significantly.”_

_“We needed time to work it out,” Sybil said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. At least, that’s what she’d thought._

_”And your Instructor also notes that you had some very clear ideas of how the vote should have gone.”_

_“They weren’t just mine,” Sybil snapped. “They were everyone’s. We did them together! I still — I_ still _don’t understand why they —“_

_She twisted her hair around her finger, once, twice, three times, four._

_“Why couldn’t we just have presented the map we made together?” she asked, more out of frustration than out of actually wanting an answer. “I gathered everyone’s needs. That arrangement would have worked. It didn’t give everyone exactly what they wanted, but it was fair. Everyone would have been happy. It would have been_ perfect.”

_”Would it have? Are you sure?” the man said, with surprise. He was smiling._

_Her face turned steely._

_”Yes.”_

:::

“I can’t believe you!” Sybil shouted. “You’re — you’re _useless_!”

“Look who’s talking,” West said, rolling his eyes. “Literally the only one in our class without even _one_ Selection.”

“What’s the point having a Selection if you’re just going to use it for yourself?!” Sybil demanded, but he was already walking away.

“Go cry about it in your sandbox,” she heard him mutter. The Planners in earshot laughed. Before Sybil could go after him again, Turner grabbed her arm.

“Come on, Syb, quit. It isn’t just them.”

Sybil ripped her arm away. _Deep breath,_ she told herself. Just as her Instructor had advised she do after Lusia’s birthday party.

Turner was right — it took more than just one jerk to ruin a vote.

It took a _majority_ of jerks.

She looked back up at the final map. The votes had been tallied and normalized and their new campus was already beginning to render. But maybe there was some kind of mistake.

”Sorry, Sybil,” was her Instructor’s only response when she stormed into their office. ”But I’m tired of telling you this. That’s just how the vote went.”

“You did your best,” Lusia sighed. She had been waiting outside the door, and stepped forward as soon as Sybil was kicked out. “It’s alright.”

“It is _not_ alright. Did you even _see_ the map?”

No one had followed the plan — at least, not as precisely as they had needed to. Every student had made a warped permutation of Sybil’s perfect map. All had been fed into the voting algorithm, and without clear majorities, it had spat out their features in a total mess. Other than the locations that the Planners themselves had wanted and been able to secure, nothing was right, or even made sense. The park was ruptured and checkered with offices and labs and dormitories. Half the lake had become a swimming pool whose left edge bled chlorine into the mud. Zarah’s track was huge, as she had wanted, and zig-zagged across everything.

“How are we supposed to have class and live here for the next year?” Sybil cried. “The dorm rooms aren’t even all the same size! Some of the building doors can’t even be opened because they’re too close to _other buildings_! There’s no room for nice cotes anymore even though West drew that himself. And the woods —“

— was totally gone.

“What they did to you — I hate them, I _hate_ them,” Sybil snarled, but Lusia was shaking her head.

“It’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I don’t really mind.”

Sybil’s shock broke through her rage. She gaped. “Wh-what? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying — I’m saying that all that was so…so long ago. Sometimes you just have to move on.”

“What do you — really? Just like that? That’s it?”

Lusia blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean — Lusia, you — really cared! You wouldn’t speak for weeks! And now, that’s it?”

“It’s not like this means I never cared,” Lusia said, defensively. “But I can’t care forever. Things change. There are other animals, even other dogs.”

_Other dogs._ What happened to _I’ll never be able to see another dog without thinking of mine?_

“It’s the same for you, isn’t it?” Lusia asked. “With that old sandbox that you used to have? You couldn’t be mad about that _forever_.”

“I _am_ still mad about that,” Sybil told her, and Lusia laughed, then stopped when she saw Sybil wasn’t joking.

“It wasn’t fair,” Sybil growled, and Lusia nodded hastily.

“Right — yeah — it wasn’t. Okay. W-well…well, listen. In situations like this, I really think it’s best to move on. In fact, I think I’m going to use this quarter’s space to help take care of some dogs.”

“But there’s no big place for them to _do_ anything on our grounds,” Sybil pointed out, “since the Planners built their rooms over _everything,_ ” and Lusia shook her head.

“Dogs will be totally fine in the grounds we have. Really, Sybil, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like this is the last vote ever. We can change things up next time. And in the meantime, we’ve got a good variety of Selections in our class — there are people that can fix whatever isn’t immediately working.”

“So what are you saying?” Sybil demanded. “West and all the Planners ruined our class’s whole campus — which is the _last_ thing they should be doing with that Selection, by the way — and now the rest of us just have to accept it?”

“Well, you don’t have to _accept_ it,” Lusia argued, “but — I mean — what else can you do about it?”

Sybil’s silence answered for her. Lusia softened.

“Listen,” she said, taking Sybil’s hands in hers. “We’ve only got a couple years left. Everything isn’t ruined. Don’t worry about it, especially when you need to focus on figuring out your Selections before graduation.”

She was right. Sybil hadn’t yet found any rules disqualifying her Selection-less presence from either enrollment or citizenship. But, she also hadn’t found records of anyone else who still lacked a Selection by their last years of preliminary. Worried, Sybil’s Instructor began to sign her up for a variety of simulations and interviews and shadowing opportunities and grew increasingly panicked when Sybil continued to report that nothing was sticking.

“It’s been _years_ , Sybil,” they said, as if Sybil didn’t know this herself. “This is — unheard of. Hasn’t… _anything_ stood out?”

“No,” she mumbled.

“You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?”

“I’m _sure._ ”

She knew what it looked like, what it sounded like, when someone found something they loved. She knew the helpless flourishes of Lusia’s arms when she worked with her animals. She knew the curses and the inevitable roar of triumph Turner had when they finally made their macaroons just right. She even knew the particular crisp laugh West had when learning some new facet of Cloudbank infrastructure — a sound that, despite her grudges, could infect her with delight and curiosity about whatever he was working on.

“And you don’t…you know…” The Instructor waved their hand, and when Sybil just stared, they sighed. “You don’t want to just pick something?”

Sybil’s stare turned from confused to aghast. “N- _no!_ ”

“Sybil, not even as a — a little fallback? A just-in-case?”

“Absolutely not!”

“ _Why?_ ” the Instructor cried. “Sybil, I have to be frank: at this rate, there’s a very small possibility of you graduating alongside your class. All of your peers have already approached me with second, even _third_ drafts for their final capstones, but you haven’t even mentioned a single idea.”

Sybil shifted in her seat, refusing to respond.

“Sybil,” the Instructor called. “You have to understand. If it were up to me, I’d be happy to let you take as much time as you needed to find your Selection.”

“So why don’t you?” she demanded. “You’re my Instructor. You’re supposed to be looking out for me.”

“You know I can’t. There are people above me. People that — that have a majority on these things.”

“The people you give all those notes to?” she asked, and the Instructor coughed and stopped typing.

“Well…well, yes.” They pushed the terminal away. “Listen, Sybil. You spend a lot of time with Ms. Panay, why not pursue Menagerie?”

“ _No,_ ” Sybil repeated. “It’s not right! My Selection’s going to be one of the most important things in my life. I need to find something that I can devote myself to _completely._ Remember? You told me that yourself!”

“Did I?” they said weakly.

“Yes!”

“Well...well…then keep searching, Sybil,” her Instructor said finally, feebly, one hand crushed to their brow. “But I better not see you fooling around and playing. When you’re not doing schoolwork or extracurriculars, you better be searching.”

“Am I dismissed?” Sybil asked, already half-standing.

“Yes,” they sighed, “go,” and Sybil fled.

They didn’t need to worry about Sybil spending her time idly. When she wasn’t running sims or doing schoolwork, she kept herself busy naturally, almost desperately. She helped Lusia with her dogs’ training regimen, and though she didn’t like their slimy tongues, she did love feeding them treats, and asked Turner to bake some specially. Zarah’s track with all its angles went unused after all, but Sybil brought her one of Lusia’s dogs to exercise, and thereafter Zarah was seen running every morning around campus with a long-legged terrier, much to Benamin Lether’s dismay.

“Can’t you bring them somewhere else?” he demanded as Sybil came past with a particularly enthusiastic shiba. She tugged on the leash as it began to strain for him with a gaping, panting grin.

“Sit,” she told it. It paced, more interested in Benamin than in her, until Sybil patted its rump gingerly with her hand. Once it was finally down, she wiped her hand on her skirt, looked up at Benamin, and asked, “Why?”

In response, he pointed at the dog’s feet. Sybil clicked her tongue and put out her hand.

“Shake.” Once again, the dog just gazed at her, and she huffed in exasperation. This was the least obedient of all Lusia’s dogs. She hated it when things didn’t listen, especially as she was certain this dog understood her perfectly.

“ _Shake,_ ” she repeated, and when it continued to tilt its head at her, she growled and grabbed its paw impatiently. Sticking up raggedly between the claws were thyme and mint and — was that oregano? All plants that had clearly once been in some kind of garden.

“Sorry,” she said, grimacing. Benamin looked at her and then at the dog, and then heaved a sigh.

“It’s alright,” he said, kneeling down. He rubbed the dog’s cheeks, resigned. “It’s not really your fault. There’s just not really space out here to grow anything where it’ll be safe from traffic.”

No space? Sybil tugged at her hair thoughtfully, and then yelled, making both Benamin and the dog jump.

“I know exactly where you can plant things!” she exclaimed, and soon the interiors of all the buildings were furnished with blooming vines, and succulents suspended in glass, and windowsill herbs that Turner and the other kitchen students could use.

There was always so much to do: books to re-shelve now that their class library had been bifurcated by the vote; orders of food to make that would store well in their oddly-shaped pantries; minor votes to oversee, fiercely, to make sure no more of their classroom was converted into unusable land.

She resented it whenever her Instructor pulled her back to remind her that she was running out of time to find a Selection. She hated being removed from it all, from everyone, hated even when the sunset came and she had to retreat to her own bed to be by herself for however many hours Cloudbank’s majority wanted night to have that season. For a long time she just lied there and stared into the empty air, swallowing, breathing, trying to overcome the emptiness of her hands, the hollow in her chest that she couldn’t ignore when no one else was around to distract her.

Without anyone else, there was nothing — nothing for her to do, to be, to love. She was just a girl in a sandbox again. Or worse: that rough gray rock whose partner and category she had never been able to find.

“You look tired,” Lusia remarked. “Are you alright?”

“I’m great,” Sybil replied, making a smile. While she was looking up a yorkie licked her chin, and she shuddered and excused herself to find a bathroom to wash off the saliva.

:::

_Finally, the man clicked the terminal off and set it aside. As much as she had wanted the interview to end, seeing him straightening in his chair and eyeing her was intimidating. Suddenly she wished he had more questions to ask._

_”Well, Ms. Reisz.” He cleared his throat. “You have one quarter left until graduation.”_

_Sybil mumbled something._

_“What did you say?” he asked._

_”I said, I don’t qualify for graduation,” she repeated, raising her voice reluctantly. “Even if I had a Selection, I don’t have anything planned for a capstone.”_

_”Ah. Yes. As it happens, reading your compilation has made several things about your development very clear to me. And I have some suggestions, both for your Selections and your capstone.”_

_“You..you do?”_


	4. organize()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy~

“Everyone,” the Instructor announced, “please cooperate with Sybil as she plans your class’s graduation ceremony. For her _capstone,_ ” they added, voice bursting with pride, and it was only after that clarification that the class started.

“Sybil! You’ve Selected?!”

“What is it? What is it?”

“Um, Organization,” Sybil answered. “And…” She squinted down at the paper in her hand, which was little more than a sticky note with a scribble. “Empathy.”

“It suits you,” Turner said later, in the kitchen.

“Does it?” Sybil asked dimly.

“You know, it really does — the first one, anyway. That second one is a little weird, but, eh. It’s just your second.”

Sybil groaned and Lusia, sitting next to her at the counter, patted her back.

“Aren’t you happy about it?” Lusia asked. “Sybil, you finally have Selections!”

She had a cat with her today, which began to crawl onto the counter. Its paws were dusty and its long hair was shedding and it started to sit its bottom down on the clean surface.

“It’s...alright,” Sybil said, grabbing the cat and setting it back on Lusia’s lap. “It’s just...you don’t really _make_ anything. Turner, you make food that makes people happy — and Lusia, you can help people with animals — but what do I do with _Organization_? Just tell people what to do?” She slumped on the counter, stretching out her arms. “You were right after all, Turner, with what you said all that time ago. I _did_ Select Bossyness.”

“Hey,” Turner said sharply. “If I have to be bossed around by anyone, it better be you. It hasn’t led me wrong yet.”

“Not yet,” Sybil sighed.

“Hey,” Lusia said. “Is this not something that you want? You don’t need to take a Selection that some old man suggested to you.”

Sybil considered, wrapping her hair around a finger. “I just don’t know,” she said finally.

“Don’t stress,” Lusia said comfortingly. “Grab a terminal from the Instructor and watch some videos of some old ceremonies. You’ll be just fine.”

“But —“

“You’ll be fine! Here,” Lusia said, “for now, just pet him and you’ll feel much better.” She started to bundle the cat into Sybil’s lap, and Sybil grumbled as the cat bumped its head against her belly and immediately left brown hairs on her dress.

“No?” Lusia asked, brow furrowed, and Sybil gave the cat back to her, lifting it up when its claws hooked adamantly into her clothing.

“Maybe later.”

Lusia frowned and clutched the cat to her chest.

Turner turned off the stove, shut the fridge, and then slid a plate across the counter toward her. On it were crepes slathered with strawberries in syrup. As she watched, Turner topped it with a spiral of whipped cream.

“Congratulations,” they said, and Sybil straightened and smiled at them.

“Thanks,” she said, and reached for the fork he was handing her. Her hand hesitated in midair.

 _“Plastic?”_ she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“What’s wrong with plastic? All the rest of it is in the wash.”

“There’s some silver in the drawer over there,” she told them, pointing, and they rolled their eyes with exaggeration as they retrieved a different fork.

“A knife too,” Sybil said, and they rolled their eyes.

“See? Organization’s perfect already.”

“It’s not just preference,” she argued, “it’s just hard to cut this and eat it with only a plastic fork.” And she didn’t want to risk touching the food at all when she had just touched that cat.

“Right, right. Of course. Goodness, Syb, just imagine where I’d be without you.”

“Probably still serving awful cupcakes on a baking tray,” Sybil told them, grinning, and they laughed and shoved the cutlery at her, then retrieved three glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Cheers, Sybil,” Turner said lifting the glass. “To the soon-to-be bossiest person in Cloudbank.”

“Cheers,” Lusia said, draping an arm around Sybil’s shoulder, and Sybil beamed.

“Thanks...thank you!” She hesitated, and then lunged and hugged them both, one arm each.

She loved having friends.

:::

Everything felt fine until Lusia and Turner left. That night, she tossed and turned and barely slept. Were these Selections right? What if they weren’t? But her compilation — all the things that had happened these years in class — they did seem to fit. They did, they did, they did…

She didn’t have time to look anymore. She didn’t have time to choose anything else. When morning came, she sat up in bed, and inhaled deeply.

If these were her Selections, then she needed to do what everyone else with Selections did.

_Excel._

As soon as her Instructor was in her office, Sybil took Lusia’s advice and borrowed a terminal. She queried it for videos of graduations, and spent the whole morning watching all the ceremonies she could find. Soon, it became clear that one quarter was not nearly enough time to prepare for a graduation ceremony.

“Wait...why?” Lusia asked in confusion. “What did you see in the other ceremonies? Aren’t they pretty simple?”

“They can be,” Sybil muttered.

Lusia peered over her shoulder at the screen and gasped. “Sybil, you have — you have a thousand windows open! Do you really need all this information?”

Piled on her screen were the results of three days of research, which included venue specs, bookmarked ceremony videos, and a guest list that updated live on the sidebar. She also had a version of the class roster that she’d amended with her own notes on everyone’s strengths and specialties and quirks. Turner’s proficiency for pastries with fruits, Lusia’s desire to serve any creature with two eyes, Zarah’s inability to agree to anything without a fight or trade, Ken and Carlton’s resistance to doing anything apart, Benamin’s eagerness to stay on everyone’s good side...

She had to keep everyone in order. With everyone’s help, she could make this the best ceremony ever. Everyone would be so happy — everything would be so perfect.

“Just because it’s your capstone doesn’t mean you need to...to kill yourself over all this stuff,” Lusia continued.

“It’s not just my capstone,” Sybil reminded her. “It’s my Selection.”

She was done with being useless. But she just had one chance to prove that she wasn’t, and the thought that something might not go _just right_...

No, no, no, no, no, no. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to —

_Deep breath._

She could get some Builders to fab a new stage...the Musicians could compose stylized versions of their school’s song...anyone who Selected Fashion could alter the graduation robes with personalized hems, maybe with things that referenced everyone’s individual Selections…an embroidered rose for Horticulturists, and so on…and what should be served at the reception…and…

“What?” Sybil said, realizing Lusia had been speaking, and Lusia bit her lip.

“You promised you’d help me with the dogs, remember?” Lusia asked. “The shiba isn’t listening to me, you’ve been working with him the most.”

“That dog doesn’t listen to anyone,” Sybil said distractedly, lifting a paper and looking at the one beneath it. “I’ve given up on it learning anything.”

Lusia didn’t respond. Sybil looked back at her.

“What?” she asked, but Lusia just shook her head and left. Sybil frowned, then began to pace, already thinking again of cakes, gowns, certificates, banners. Once she had plans in mind, she raced off.

She started with Turner. She slammed her hands on the kitchen counter excitedly and they jumped.

“Sybil,” they gasped, holding their chest, “what the —“

“I need you,” she interrupted, and explained everything.

“There’s — there’s not nearly enough ingredients for a cake of that size,” Turner stammered. “Or enough food for a…goodness, is this some kind of _banquet_? Sybil, wait, are you still just planning our _graduation_?”

But Sybil had stopped listening. She stared at her terminal, thinking, thinking.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and rushed off to find Benamin.

“I need you to vote for some ingredients I need,” she told him, and after he got over his shock at her sudden appearance, he shook his head.

“Sorry. I already agreed with Zarah to vote for some clear space by the lake. There’s no way I can go back on that.”

“Isn’t there already some clear space? Why do you need more?”

“We — by which I mean, the athletic and Horticulture students — are going to use it for exercise and as a pea patch.”

“Fine,” Sybil said. She glanced down at her terminal. “Next thing. Would you be able to get the other Hort students to make bouquets for the graduation?”

“Bouquets?” he said, tilting his head. “Why?”

“I’d like to have them on the tables during the reception. Maybe hand out bouquets to everyone if we have enough. Wouldn’t it be great?” she asked excitedly. “Everyone goes up, name called — gets their certificate — then someone hands them a bouquet, of the most beautiful flowers. All in our own school colors, made by our own class!”

He laughed. “It does sound nice.”

“And no one’s ever done anything like this before! It makes so much sense. And it’ll look great to your concentration school,” she told him, and he chuckled.

“Enough, enough already! I’ll talk with the others,” Benamin told her, and she leaped forward and hugged him.

“Thank you!” she said, and rushed off again.

Zarah was running around campus, wearing earphones. After trying and failing to catch up with her or get her attention, Sybil searched her pockets for a leftover dog treat and threw it at Zarah’s terrier, who immediately stopped and brought Zarah with it. She yelled with annoyance and ripped out her earphones.

“Zarah!” Sybil shouted, lifting her dress and finally catching up with her. She panted out her next words. “I need...you to vote...for —“

“Not happening,” she said starting to thumb her earphones back in. “I want that clearing.”

She turned away, and Sybil waved her arms frantically to get her attention back.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said hurriedly. “How — how would you feel if you had _more_ space? In exchange for voting for something for me?”

Zarah cocked her brow. “I’d like that,” she said, “but we couldn’t get anyone except the flower crew on board. The draft kids wanted that space for something.”

“I’ll look into it,” Sybil promised, and glanced at her terminal. “One other thing — you and all the other athletes are pretty strong, right?” And when Zarah just snorted at her: “Then would you be able to help set things up for graduation?”

“Maybe,” she said. “If you give me however many of those dog cookies you have left.” Sybil searched her pockets and Zarah took her three remaining treats with a growl. “Alright, I’ll help you out. But don’t you ever stop me again.”

“We’re designing a building for the lab students,” someone with Architecture explained when she tracked them down. “They want it to be much larger than their current building. If the clearing’s any wider, it’ll get in the way.”

Sybil grit her teeth, but hugged them when they agreed to draw up a stage for her.

“We need to finish up our capstone theses,” one of the Engineering students told her with exasperation once she found them. “Listen, we already need to share the lab with the Med and Chem students. We _all_ need space. And we can’t expand in the other direction because of the lake.”

“Fine,” she said, and then got them to agree to code an entry display for graduation.

She found Calen, who told her furiously that the building would ruin the habitat more than it already had been by the Construction students falling trees. (But after she asked, he suggested that he and the other Bio students could staff decorative aquariums at the banquet, to educate guests on their class’s unique ecosystem.) She found the Construction students, who told her they needed it to make rooms and desks for the Design and Writing students. (But they agreed to make whatever stage the Architects drafted.) She found Ken and Carlton, who told her they and none of the other Writers or Designers would give up their space requirements. (But they would be glad to design and word the programs for her).

Finally, Sybil stormed her way to one of the main Civil Planning lounges. Conveniently, there were already several Planners there — including West.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“You all need to give me” — she glanced at her terminal — “one and a half of the buildings that are designated for Civil Planning.”

“Nope,” he said before she’d even finished. “No way.”

“You all have the most space of anyone!”

“Well,” another Planner said, “we _need_ the most space of anyone. We’re the largest group.”

“All of you don’t need _this_ much space,” Sybil argued, tapping her terminal screen. “You’re the largest _single_ group but the rest of us altogether outnumber you, and have less than half of the us able buildings.”

“We’re not giving anything up,” West said, and turned away.

_Deep breath._

“Think about it,” Sybil said, and then shot all of them a fierce glare. “Just _think_ about it.”

“It’s not fair,” she told one Planner the next day, dogging them everywhere. “Is this really what a Civil Planner would do out in Cloudbank proper?”

“What are the teachers at your secondary school going to think when they see our campus?” she demanded of another Planner the next day.

“Look at how happy everyone would be if you just shared a little space!” she called after ever group of Planners she saw the next.

“Is this all really,” she said at the end of the week, sweeping her hand over the school grounds, “something you want on your portfolio _forever_?”

Their gazes were changing. She was going after them all one by one and they were, at the very least, getting exhausted of her. The other students watched Sybil go, first with amusement and then with shouted encouragement as the Planners began to pause uncomfortably instead of ignoring her outright.

“Don’t let her get to you,” she heard West warning Planners as she approached, but by then it was too late. It had been two long weeks of constant battering, and at the end of it, the Planners held a vote and the majority agreed to give her two buildings.

The Writers got their rooms, and shared desks with Planners; the Construction students let up on the woods; the Biologists reclaimed construction area; the labs could expand in the opposite direction; the clearing for the athletic and Horticulture could be twice as big. Everyone agreed to vote, and this time, Sybil watched closely and hung her favors over them. All votes went through to totally restock their pantry with the finest ingredients Cloudbank could render.

“Sorry, Sybil,” Turner said after the vote passed. They were standing in front of the cupboards, which were only three-quarters-filled. “I guess all that stuff was more expensive than we thought.”

She didn’t respond. She twisted her hair around her finger, glaring at the empty shelves.

“It’s not your fault. I always hated how little we had allocated for food,” they continued with a sigh. “You know, I always envied that other class in our year. They have a majority of Chefs, so they always get whatever they want to experiment with. And so much of it! Sometimes they invite us to try stuff out, and we never finish.”

Sybil’s eyes narrowed further. She looked down at her terminal, swiped a couple times, and counted out to herself. Twenty-four…twenty-three…thirty...

“Plus three,” she mumbled, and stared again at the pantry.

“I don’t think continuing to stare at it is going to solve anything,” Turner laughed, nervously, and Sybil shook her head.

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“Then what? It’s not that bad if we don’t have a lot of food at the reception, you know,” Turner said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Who even asked for that? It’s more than anyone should have expected of you.”

But she shook her head again.

“It needs to happen. Remember how happy everyone was, with the birthday parties? I want it like that. It,” she said, hand fisting, “is _going_ to be like that, no matter what,” and before Turner could say anything else she was striding off again, this time to the Instructor’s office.

She burst in, too focused to realize she hadn’t even knocked.

“Sybil!” the Instructor said in surprise. They stood, then looked at the clock. “It’s — it’s not my office hours — what —?”

Sybil slapped her hands on the Instructor’s desk.

“Let me run the school’s graduation ceremony.”

“What are you…aren’t you already running the ceremony.”

“Not just my class’s ceremony,” Sybil clarified, leaning closer. “The whole school. The big one. For my whole year.”

“Your _whole_ —“ The Instructor was flabbergasted. “Sybil, that’s — there’s just no —“

“But there’s no other way I can do this!” Sybil cried. “The majority of our class are Civil Planners, so our allocation for food is less. I need the class in the other wing, whichever one has a Culinary majority. They could vote for more than enough.”

“E-even so, that’s only one other class —“

“Well,” Sybil said impatiently, “at that point I might as well just do the other classes too. Eighty three extra people total. It would just be unfair, to leave them out. Besides, I need more people to pitch in for the ceremony anyway. Planners aren’t really relevant, I can’t use them for _anything._ ”

The Instructor rubbed their forehead.

“Sybil,” they said, evenly. “Sybil. If it were up to me, I’d be happy to…to let you organize the whole ceremony. But you _know_ I can’t. It’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s not your _idea_ that’s ridiculous — but there’s just no way I could pitch it to the majority of — or to _anyone_ , for that matter —”

“You can,” Sybil told them, “you can. You know whose idea my capstone was, right? Remember?”

The Instructor grimaced at her. Sybil lifted their terminal from the desk and pushed it toward them.

“Come on,” she begged. “You’re my Instructor. It’s my Selection. Do something. _Something._ Please! Just ask! It can’t hurt to ask!”

One person could keep her from having everything. Her Instructor remained silent and Sybil’s fist hardened against the desk’s edge. She took a deep breath.

With a sigh, the Instructor ran a query and called.

It took one hour for Sybil’s request to be translated onto a ballot, and passed beneath enough voting eyes.

One hour, and the school graduation was hers.


	5. supervise()

Eighty-three more people to organize. By the time she got to know everyone properly, evaluate them, and add them to the roster on her terminal, a whole week had passed.

She discussed and marked out everything. One week needed to design the stage, one week needed to render the material, two weeks to build it. After that, decoration, though the Horticulture students should have been working for two weeks to get the flowers ready. And then there was making sure there was seating that would match the overall decor...

This could happen. This could happen. But only if it all slid into place just right.

“Hey, Sybil,” Lusia called, walking in. She had the shiba with her.

“What?” Sybil asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Um — nothing’s wrong. Just came to see what you were up to.” She sat down beside her on the couch, and the shiba followed, sniffing Sybil’s pockets for a handout. “Everything going well?”

“Passable. Some of the Designers are saying they don’t have enough material for the diploma folders for everyone.”

“Oh. Is everything going to be alright?”

Sybil rubbed her forehead. Lusia reached over and rubbed her shoulders.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said. Sybil said nothing. They sat in silence a little while and then Lusia cleared her throat.

“Well, want to ask how I’m doing?”

“Oh,” Sybil said, perking, “did you think of something to do for the ceremony?”

Lusia sighed. “Maybe you should take a break.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t have enough time.”

“Not even for a little? Someone in the other class is Film and she’s having a showing tonight. I thought you might want to see it together.”

“You mean Tam Marton?” Finally Sybil looked up. “She told me she’d be working on shorts based on everyone’s compilations to play during the procession.”

“I — well, I’m sure she’s working on that too —“

“Let’s check,” Sybil said, and they went to search for her and confirm all the details while Lusia tugged the whining shiba along.

Each day the calendar on her terminal ticked down, down down. Every day the guest list changed and she passed the additions or subtractions on to ensure there were enough invitations, and that Culinary had enough stocked to serve any possible combination of diet preferences. And there were so many other things to keep track of. People were changing Selections last minute — were coming up with ideas last minute — were messaging her at all hours of the day, trying to add or adjust or back out of various commitments.

She answered everything, or questioned it, or forced it, or praised it. Someone always needed something, and she always knew exactly what it was. She knew whether to cajole or scream at someone throwing a tantrum; knew whether to snap or negotiate someone into line; knew how to coax or fight someone out of their sobbing graduation fears.

“Maybe Empathy is a good Selection for you after all,” Turner mused as they approached. “I thought no one was ever going to calm Delanne down. Now she won’t stop talking about the paintings that are going to be in the hallway as everyone enters the venue.”

“I don’t know why she wanted Linguistics to be her main in the first place,” Sybil said absentmindedly, face glowing with the light from her terminal. “She’s been painting as long as I remember.”

Turner shrugged. “I don’t blame her for thinking that doing something else would be more useful to more people. Especially for something in the arts. That other class has a majority of Artists and I’ve been hearing they’re worried there will be too many in Cloudbank when they graduate.”

Sybil thought about it, eyes narrowed at the ceiling. “That’s silly,” she concluded.

“Is it?”

“If it’s your Selection, just focus on it. Why should other people matter?”

“Other people matter a lot,” Turner said dryly. “Especially if they’re a majority.” They handed her the bag of apples she had asked for, and she took one and examined it.

“Washed?”

“Yeah, of course.”

She bit it and continued pacing. “How are the menus coming?”

“Um…just fine. Listen, Syb, why don’t you take a break? Maybe eat something a little more substantial. And see Lusia. She misses you.”

“Too busy,” Sybil replied, careful not to spill any apple juice on her screen. Suddenly she squinted down at it, and yelled.

“What —?” he shouted, but she was already off, putting out another logistical fire.

She worked hard. She brushed off her Instructor’s concerns and suggestions for therapy or at least rest, spent her free time polling statuses on everyone’s projects and staring at the guest list. She slept whenever and wherever her body happened to be when she lost all of her energy; and it was nice to not have that interim stage where she would stare at the ceiling and wonder what she was supposed to do with her life. With every day that passed, with every hug and smile and plan exchanged, her sleep, though spare, was restful and serene. She was warm with being in the center of it all, with being connected to so many wonderful people.

:::

As the ceremony grew closer things seemed to speed up, and Sybil scrutinized the proceedings to ensure all the projects wouldn’t complete just to crash into each other. The morning of the event, it was discovered that the stage hadn’t been built with space to store the diplomas and folders, and Instructors rushed past with both, narrowly dodging servers heading out from the kitchen to the venue’s waiting area. As they passed by with silver platters Sybil ticked off their names on her terminal, taking attendance. Five…eight…fifteen. Everyone was here.

And the guests were arriving as well. Sybil craned, swallowing, to check their expressions, but before she could get a good look, Aidan Cresant (Aesthetics, Acquisition) tapped on her shoulder.

“Sybil,” he called, “you’re up. You’re the last one.”

With resignation, she tucked her terminal into her dress pocket and went to have her face done, and to put on her robe, which had _Organization_ and _Empathy_  embroidered on the left sleeve beneath Cloudbank’s seal.

She sat with her class near the front of the venue, heart racing with apprehension as she surveyed the venue. Warm golden sunlight streamed through the windows (thank you, Meteorologists). The number of chairs was exact, and all were decorated with bows and lilies (thank you, Interior Decorators, and Benamin, and all the students that had anything to do with flowers). Streamers hung from the ceiling in broad arcs that led to the stage, which was rich dark wood and shone with lights embedded in the whorls (thank you Architects, Constructors, Engineers). Everywhere she looked she saw someone’s hard, beautiful work, and when she made it onto the stage, when her name was finally called — _“Sybil Reisz!”_ — she looked out over it all with awe. Everything was incredible. Everyone was incredible.

Sybil’s Instructor cleared their throat. Sybil glanced over in confusion.

“I should mention,” said Sybil’s Instructor, “that it’s thanks to Sybil that we are enjoying this beautiful ceremony today, the first of its kind in Cloudbank. This is her capstone project.”

Sybil stared in shock. That was _not_ in the program. Before she could raise a protest, someone whooped from the student rows; someone echoed it; someone cried, “Yeah, Syb!” And then applause broke out across the venue, a trickle, and then a _roar,_ louder than any storm that had ever been orchestrated on their campus. Everyone was exchanging glances; everyone was smiling.

And finally, Sybil beamed back.

:::

The Culinary students had originally thought to do some kind of sit-down banquet, but Sybil had convinced them it would be better to do a variety of appetizers distributed by roaming servers. This way, people weren’t tied to table settings; they could wander and talk. Once she was sure everything was going along as planned, Sybil joined the crowd, greeting everyone by name and sampling anything that came her way.

“Great work with the flowers, Benamin,” Sybil said, hugging him and plucking up a little flaky phyllo cup filled with pears and cheese. Horticulture and Politics meant he’d been a perfect choice to coordinate it all.

“Thanks, Sybil,” he replied brightly. “Great work yourself.” He looked up over her head and a grin burst across his face. “Excuse me,” he told her, and pushed past.

“Hey, Syb, awesome setup,” Zarah gasped out as she rushed past.

“Th-thanks!” Sybil said. “You too! How are…”

But Zarah was already gone, laughing, apparently racing an other athletic student to the venue entrance. A server, thinking Sybil had been speaking to them, cocked an eyebrow at her. Sybil coughed.

“How are these?” she asked, pointing at their tray.

“They’re great,” they told her. “Want one?”

“Of course,” Sybil said. They had sausages twisted with bacon and dipped halfway in maple syrup, and she popped it hastily into her mouth and continued on.

“Turner!” Sybil called with relief as she spotted them. They glanced over as she ran towards them. “Turner, great work with the menu. Everything I’ve tried has been so good.”

“Yeah? Glad to hear it!” They grinned. “Can you guess which one was my recipe?”

“Of course,” Sybil sniffed. There was only one chef whose second was Horticulture. And only one person who had worried over the state of pears. “It was that phyllo one with —”

“With the pears?!” asked Niki Annra (Culinary, Instruction). “I tried those! I loved them, I had three! How did you do it?”

She leaned close to them and Turner cleared their throat. “W-well, it’s pretty simple…”

“Oh,” Sybil said excitedly, “the —“

“The main problem was having ripe pears,” Les Garber (Culinary, Chemistry) said. “When we got them, they’d been rendered _just_ a little firmer than we need them.”

Arda Rau (Culinary, Engineering) snorted. “If they popped out any softer we’d just get them as mush.”

“So how, then? You just had to wait?”

“No,” Sybil said, “there —“

“No, if we waited, there wouldn’t be enough time to make them before the ceremony,” Turner explained, eyes bright. “So we just stuffed them into some paper bags with a couple bananas that were already ripe.”

“Oh, I remember — it’s because of that one thing —“

“Ethylene!”

They continued chattering amongst each other, voices rising, and Sybil backed away, unnoticed. It was clear they were occupied, and maybe someone with a non-Culinary Selection didn’t entirely match.

She lifted another appetizer from a tray (a triplet of scallop crescents, seared and stabbed through with a knotted piece of bamboo). She sat at a table and looked across the room. There wasn’t a rule about how everyone was to socialize — but there seemed to be an expectation, unspoken, and heavier than anything that could have been written. Students had split up into their common groups: Architects, Dancers, Biologists. She finished her scallops and fiddled with the bamboo, looking around.

Ken and Carlton (Writing, Design; Design, Writing), nuzzling and laughing over wine. Delanne (Arts, Discernment) and Lagin (Biology, Arts) chatting animatedly in front of a painting of a dragonfly. West huddled with some Planners, most of whom waved when she saw her gaze pass over. From a distance, finally, she spotted Lusia’s dark hair rising above the crowd, and she stood excitedly.

“Lu —“ she started, and stopped. Lusia (Menagerie, Empathy) was with Tam Marton (Film, Empathy), and was laughing. The crowd parted, and in the transient gap Sybil saw their fingers were intertwined.

Her hand clenched and she hissed as the bamboo dug into her skin. She sat down, hard, blinking fast.

_Deep breath._

Since when were Lusia and Tam such good friends? Why hadn’t Lusia ever mentioned anything? Wasn’t Lusia Sybil’s friend? Why wasn’t Lusia with _her_? Sybil fidgeted in her chair and then stood up again — but before she could approach, the crowd parted once more and she saw Tam bend down to pick up the shiba, inexplicably present, and kiss it right on its slimy nose.

Lusia had never looked so happy.

Sybil’s next deep breath shuddered in her throat. She sat down, heavily.

She shouldn’t be feeling this way — not at the end of her school years, not at the end of her greatest project. Not when it was looking like such a success. All the votes that had happened in their class had always ended with a handful of students burned by the decisions of the majority, but this time… _this time_.

Everyone was delighted. Everyone had had what they wanted. Turner and Lusia and everyone, everyone was happy. No faulty votes and biased majorities to ruin the bigger picture. It was thanks to her.

She shouldn’t feel this way. This was all she had ever wanted, right? This was all anyone in Cloudbank ever aspired to: a way to be useful. She’d done it. She’d made it. Nothing had gone wrong, everything was perfect. And any…any moment now, someone would come by, to say something more than “congratulations.”

 _”See, didn’t everything turn out just fine?_ ” her theoretical anyone would ask, soothingly, hand on her back. _”I’m so proud of you. Thank you so much, for everything you’ve done for us. Do you mind if I join you?”_

 _It did,_ Sybil would respond. And _You’re welcome._ And, _Alright._ And then she’d reach up — toward the hand extended her — and allow herself to be pulled to her feet.

Any moment now.

“Ms. Reisz?”

Sybil swiped at her eyes and tugged on a smile.

“M-Mr. Kendrell,” she realized. She swallowed and stood, again, the chair rattling as she shoved it back. They shook hands. She laughed, loudly.

“S-so…what do you think?” she asked, spreading her arms to indicate the ceremony. He chuckled.

“It’s magnificent. No less than I expected from you.”

“Th-thank you! Your advice was so helpful. And...and really, this whole ceremony is thanks to you,” she said. “I couldn’t have chosen a better capstone.”

He shook his head. “No, no, Ms. Reisz. It was my idea, but all of this came about through your hard work. Even I didn’t imagine you’d take my simple suggestion and...and make it into what is frankly the most impressive capstone I’ve ever seen.”

She made a smile. “It’s…it’s nothing. I only did what was necessary.”

“So it seems.” As a server passed he retrieved two flutes of champagne and handed her one.

“Cheers,” he said, “to you. And to what is necessary.”

Their glasses clinked. The bubbles prickled at her tongue and throat as she swallowed.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t want to keep you.”

“Oh, no,” Sybil said hastily, “it’s fine. Stay as long as you like. Please. If you like. That is, if you don’t have anything else to do.”

He smiled at her and gestured for her to sit opposite him at the tall table.

“Very well. The truth is, Ms. Reisz —“

“Sybil’s fine.”

“Well, then, Sybil. I suppose it’s fair that you call me Grant as well.” He took a sip from his drink, and accepted when a server came by offering skewers of shrimp and honeyed walnuts. When the server trotted away, he leaned toward her, and she leaned in as well.

“Sybil,” Grant said. “I have a proposition for you.”

:::

_One last interview to go._

_She took the long route to her Instructor’s office. The school was quiet; the majority had already left for concentration schools, or work, or vacations._

_Soon, she would be gone for — work — as well._

_But before that, she just wanted one last look._

_She stepped carefully, scanning, skirt and purse swaying. There was nothing left to see, really. Everything in their old campus, the kitchens, the Planner buildings, the marsh…all the things that had seemed to matter so much had been deconstructed, cleared up for the next class._

_The only thing left was a wide field. A small playground. And…a sandbox._

_It was the last that she approached, slowly. She had come so far. Her capstone was complete. She had her Selections. More than that, she had grown out of her misguided imaginings, and emerged, finally, into the real world that her school had been intended to prepare her for this whole time._

_Sybil scuffed her shoe against the sand. She had always been upset with her loneliness back then. And she had always thought having a Selection would fix it._

_She snorted, smiled softly. Now she was older. She’d accomplished everything she was supposed to, and nothing had changed the way she had thought it should. Her assumptions had been wrong. Her own feelings weren’t something that mattered. She was just a single individual amidst Cloudbank’s multitudes._

Deep breath.

_In her Instructor’s office, she sat, back straight, eyes forward._

_”Supervision,” Sybil answered. “And Organization.”_

_Her Instructor’s brows furrowed._

_”You’re sure?” they asked._

_”Yes.”_

_They input the words into the form, with a smile. “Alright. And what reasons can I cite?”_

_Benamin as he talked to his rendering flowers, claiming the colors would be brighter. Turner and Niki as they laughed over anecdotes of fruit. Delanne as she mixed pigments and searched for just the right yellow. Lusia as she hugged her during the ceremony, before waving goodbye and dancing away to rejoin Tam and her leaping, wiggling dog._

_A smile broke across her face._

_”I have hundreds of reasons,” she said. “I can’t possibly name them all.”_

_Her Instructor chuckled. ”Then, maybe just a summary?”_

_”Alright.” Sybil considered, and then laughed. “I guess you could put in…I love people!”_

_And if school had taught her anything, it was that was better than the ballot at making the majority of them happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thanks for reading ♥()

**Author's Note:**

> When will I stop being obsessed with Sybil? idk. _idk._ Probably never ;w;


End file.
